


Sweet True Lies

by rawrkinjd



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel Has a Big Dick (The Witcher), Explicit Sexual Content, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, M/M, MI6 Agents, Modern Era, Secret Santa, Special Agent Rivia, Top Eskel (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28179507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: Geralt’s a special agent for MI6 and Jaskier’s his analyst. They’re on a mission to secure nuclear launch codes for a stray nuke cooked up by a private company who, until recently, only sent electric cars into space. Geralt and Jaskier are the best in the business, but Geralt has a weakness for tall, dark and handsome that tends to get him into trouble at the worst times. Or is it the best?Merry Christmas, Panda. I saw you post about something along these lines on Discord a while ago. I hope it's okay!
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 107
Kudos: 162
Collections: BIKM Secret Santa Event 2020, The Modern Witcher AU Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PandaPuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandaPuff/gifts).



* * *

_“I’m not sure you quite understand. She said I was needy—take the first left, I’ve turned the security cameras off—and **then** , in the **same breath** , said I didn’t pay enough attention to her.” _

“Mmhm,” Geralt pauses, his back pressed to the wall as he glanced around the corner. 

_“You know, I forgot the three-month anniversary. Who counts their anniversaries in months, anyway? Oh, Geralt, watch your twelve, mobile patrol; pistol and potential melee weapon.”_

Geralt stops at the end of the corridor and waits for the heavy, booted footsteps to reach him before he strikes. One hand secures around the guard’s mouth and nose, while the other arm wraps tightly around his chest and biceps. The veins bulge in Geralt’s neck as he maintains the hold until his victim falls limp, but Jaskier continues to witter away in his ear.

_“She pulled out the big guns though. Said her mother never liked me, which was a blatant lie. When I went over for fajita night I got **seconds** and she pinched my cheek. The woman was a saint.” _

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers, drawing in deep breaths after his brief struggle. “Need somewhere to hide the body.”

_“Dead or unconscious?”_

“Unconscious,” Geralt lowers the body to the ground to conserve his strength and free up his arms in case another guard happens to join him. “He’ll be out long enough for me to collect the codes and get out of here.”

 _“There’s a cleaning cupboard down the hall, on the right.”_ Geralt can hear the tap of keys as Jaskier reviews the maps and checks the rest of the security patrols. _“You’ve got six minutes to hide him and get to the stairwell before two more are on you. They’re circulating anti-clockwise, will come from your six.”_

Geralt grabs the limp man from the floor and hoists him over his shoulders, before walking quickly down the empty corridor. The cupboard’s exactly where Jaskier said it would be, and Geralt wastes no time in binding the guard up with a ream of electrical wire he finds stashed under a metal unit. There was never any question, really. Jaskier’s the best analyst in the business—attentive, sharp and multi-talented—but other operatives just can’t stand his incessant chatter. Sometimes he sings too. Not generally a problem unless Geralt’s face is pressed into the crotch of a large Russian henchman with severe body odour, or he’s clinging to the edge of a building with a crazed scientist stamping on his fingers; Jaskier crooning ‘My Heart Will Go On’ with added vibrato added a certain level of stress to the whole affair.

 _“Okay, Geralt,”_ Jaskier chirps. _“Good job. Patrol’s two minutes away. Head east down the corridor, turn right twice, keep to the left side of the wall, there’s a camera that I can’t get to but it’s mostly pointing into a staffroom.”_

Geralt glances up at the silver placard on the white-washed wall—Bureau 20-30—they need Bureau 30, which means travelling to the very end of the building with its huge wall of glass windows. Geralt’s escape is down a fire escape into a back alley. Jaskier’s been keeping an eye on it the whole time; intelligence suggested it was unsupervised, but you could never be too careful. Even if it wasn’t occupied by anyone associated with the company, Paris was notorious for young, adventurous lovers looking for a quiet nook to explore their passions. A witness was a witness.

There are no more patrols as Geralt crosses from wall to wall, eyes searching for blinking cameras to ensure none have escaped Jaskier’s net. The security men downstairs are currently watching a carefully constructed repeat of their men patrolling empty corridors. Jaskier studied the routines and patterns of the security staff for a whole week to make sure it was infallible. 

He finds the office and crouches down by the lock, withdrawing the folded picking kit from his back pocket. For a multibillion-dollar corporation, they really did have some antiquated ways of keeping their most prized possessions safe. Just proved that those that worked with computers trusted them the least; Jaskier told Geralt as such before he hopped onto the plane to get here. Just as he pulls the first bobby-pin from its pouch, Geralt spots the tiny marks around the lock. He reaches out with gloved fingers and runs his fingertip over the scratches. An untrained eye would’ve missed them. “Jaskier, we have a problem,” he breathes.

_“What? Tell me.”_

“Someone’s already been here.”

 _“Shit,”_ Jaskier barks and begins tapping furiously at his computer, his blue eyes probably flicking from screen to screen in search of evidence of their culprit. He swears again when his intelligence fails to reveal anything, and there are no cameras for him to peer into the room. _“I can’t get in. You’re going in blind, Geralt.”_

“Roger that.” He stands slowly and withdraws the pistol from beneath his arm. It takes him a moment to twist the silencer into place before he presses down on the door handle. It creaks open on poorly fitted hinges and Geralt grimaces at the noise. _No reaction from inside._ The hallway remains blessedly clear too. With a final breath, Geralt slips into the darkened room and lifts the pistol to eye level. 

His eyes adjust quickly as he closes the door behind him. It’s a clear, warm summer’s evening and ample moonlight spills through the wall of glass windows. The furniture is sparse but casts long shadows, and Geralt holds his breath as he surveys the room. There’s movement by the desk and he squeezes off two rounds; he learned a long time ago to shoot first and ask questions later, and had the scars to remind him. 

“Shit, Geralt,” says a familiar voice. “It’s me. Put that fucking weapon down before you hurt yourself.” It belonged to a woman, with bright eyes the colour of violet due to the special contacts she wore to provide a live feed to her handler, and long, raven hair currently wound tightly into a bun behind her head.

“Yen?” Geralt whispers, gun still braced, because he has history with the CIA that hasn’t always ended in his favour. “This isn’t a joint operation. What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Could ask the same thing,” she growls, shifting her hands slowly back to the keyboard she’d been hunched over when the door handle dipped. “We told MI6 to sit this one out. You’re too heavy handed.” 

“I’m heavy handed?” Geralt hisses. “You might as well have taken a hatchet to that door.”

“I was in a rush,” she whispers, now hunched fully over the computer; there’s a memory stick poking out the side. She’s downloading the codes. “ _Someone_ panicked when she couldn’t get into the security feeds.” Geralt could almost _see_ Triss’ meek expression as she sat behind her computer in Washington; she’s a nice girl, but still young and slightly flappable. Both Yen and Geralt have a history of picking up the stray and unwanted within their respective organisations. 

“What’s your escape route?” Geralt glances over his shoulder, ears straining for the sound of footfalls in the hallway. 

“Same as you probably,” she sighs. “Down the fire escape. Now, if you’re quiet, I may just share a copy of the codes with you. You know, as an apology for Belarus.” 

Geralt scowls. “Take more than nuclear launch codes to make up for that clusterfuck.”

“Alright, how about nuclear codes and a glass of whiskey in your hotel bar?”

“Hm,” Geralt considers with a frown. “If it’s from cask two hundred and sixty-three.”

“Ha ha.” Yen rolls her eyes as she watches the percentage on the loading screen slowly begin to creep up.

 _“Sorry to interrupt this **lovely** _ _reunion,”_ Jaskier says urgently down the earpiece. _“But you have some company, and it’s not the good kind.”_

“What do you mean not the good kind?” Geralt pushes two fingers into his ear and shifts away from the door. 

_“As in, I’ve got no trace of who the fuck he is.”_ There’s more furious key tapping. _“Can’t get a face on him either. It’s completely covered. Even the eyes. He’s got some kind of optics in place, I can’t—you need to get out of there. He’s definitely not friendly, and he’s packing some serious heat.”_

From Yen’s change in posture, Triss has clearly cottoned on to their new arrival too. She cusses at the computer impatiently, before replying to the frantic voice in her own earpiece. “Give me a countdown.” She stares intently at the screen as if the power of her ire could make the internal hardware work any faster. Time feels like it stands still. The two operatives hold their breath as their analysts mark the progress of this mystery player number three with increasingly urgent whispers. 

Geralt can feel his heart pounding in his chest, the adrenalin pulsing through his body, urging his limbs into action as imminent danger closed in. Finally, after what felt like several lifetimes, Yennefer snatches the memory stick from the computer and booted everything down. “Jaskier, we’re ready.”

 _“Right, you’re going to need to make a run for it,”_ Jaskier replies, his voice tight. _“He’s almost at the corner.”_

“Yen.”

“With you,” she slips the memory stick inside her vest, grabs her own weapon from the desk, and they count down from three before leaving the office. As Jaskier predicted, their visitor rounds the corner just as the door clicks shut behind him. The exchange of _looks_ is silent. They see the flash of a weapon and both let off a single warning shot before breaking into a sprint towards the fire escape. Combat in a building is never a good idea. Noise, chaos, _property damage_. Not to mention the fact that Jaskier’s carefully recorded security loop didn’t cover the listening ears of regular patrols. It’d be Belarus all over again.

As Yen and Geralt run down the corridor, Player Three breaks into a sprint in their wake. He doesn’t seem to care about the security cameras—or perhaps knows they’re not operational—because he makes no effort at discretion. His booted feet squeak on the immaculately scrubbed floor tiles and Geralt risks a glance over his shoulder as they reach the window. _He’s huge._ Easily over six foot, with broad shoulders and arms that could crush Geralt with a single squeeze if they got hold of him. Tactical retreat is definitely preferable to hand-to-hand, and he urges his compatriot to move a little faster. “Ladies first,” he growls as Yen throws herself at the latched window. 

They break out into the warm, midsummer evening and begin dropping down the metal stairs towards the alleyway. Player Three appears at the window and, now that he’s out in the open, lets off a spray of gunfire in their direction. The bullets ricochet off the metal barriers and Geralt ducks back against the wall to return some covering fire while Yen drops down into an industrial bin full of black bags. Once she’s secure, she turns to buy Geralt enough time to join her. As Geralt reaches the ground, she breaks into a sprint towards the mouth of the alleyway. Their hunter wastes no time in swinging down after them; his size belies his agility and he drops down on the outside of the balconies, big hands grasping the outside of the railings as he falls four feet at a time.

“Jaskier, we need wheels with some power,” Geralt pants, falling into step at Yen’s side.

 _“On it. There’s a Tesla Model 3 just across the road, give me a moment.” Tap tap_ went the keys. They reach the car—a non-descript silver Tesla with tinted windows—and Yen shoves him away from the driver’s door. He braces against the passenger side and lets off several more warning shots as Ironman makes it out into the street. They don’t slow him much and soon he’s sprinting down the pavement, dipping behind parked cars and a newspaper kiosk as Geralt tries to get a clear shot. Thankfully, the street’s deserted. It’s two o’clock in the morning. 

“Jaskier, hurry the fuck up,” Yen snarls across the roof of the car.

 _“Is she giving **me** _ _orders?”_ Jaskier asks, shrill. _“There, done. Thank you for your services, China.”_

“When I get home, you and I need to talk about your Discord friends,” Geralt says as he ducks into the passenger seat and Yen revs the engine. 

_“Yes, well—bloody hell, who is this guy? He’s like Robocop and the Terminator had a baby.”_ Because Jaskier has access to the CCTV outside in the street and Robocop just smashed through the car window of a Jaguar parked up across the street. Just as Yen floors the accelerator and pulls out from the parking spot. 

“Get rid of him,” she grates, and Geralt winds down the window with his pistol in his hands. As she twists and turns down the narrow Parisian streets, Geralt braces his hip against the car door and takes several shots at the car in their wake. Two smash through the windscreen on the driver’s side, but they miss by a few inches and Geralt can’t get another clear shot on target as Yen swerves around a corner. He’s forced to duck back inside as a well-aimed shot glances off the roof, and then punches through the back window.

“Tyres, Geralt! Or the engine,” Yen yells as she yanks the wheel to the side. They’re heading towards more crowded streets and a car chase with added gunfire isn’t something that the CIA or MI6 want appearing on the French evening news. Geralt drops his aim and takes out the driver’s side tyre. The vehicle swerves, bare metal sending sparks flying as exploded rubber falls free. It catches on the edge of the pavement and flips over. 

“Done.”

“We need to lay low for a while. Make sure our Robocop didn’t survive that crash. If there are two copies of the codes out here and he’s still alive, then there’s twice as much chance whoever the third party is will get hold of them. I’ll meet you at the Royal Monceau in two days.”

_“Uh, Geralt, I don’t think M will pass the claims forms on that—can she choose something a bit more downmarket? Maybe the, uh… I dunno, the Holiday Inn?”_

Geralt grimaces, and Yen rolls her eyes. “He’s just suggested the Holiday Inn, hasn’t he?”

“I’ll meet you at the Monceau,” Geralt replies, tapping his ear piece so that Jaskier hears the ‘ _thump thump’_ ; their agreed signal for ‘stop talking, I’m not listening’. “Are you going to stand me up again?”

She rolls her eyes. “You were late, 007; I didn’t _stand you up._ ” 

“Hm,” Geralt hums. They drive for twenty minutes in silence and she drops him off outside the non-descript hotel he’d been staying at. He watches the Tesla disappear around a bend, and then heads in for a well-earned shower.

If Geralt had looked back for even a second, he would’ve seen their third-party crawl from the wreckage of his car; not even Jaskier, who’d been too intent on following the progress of the Tesla and checking both official and unofficial channels for intel, noticed. As he panted, his hazel eyes memorised the plate with only a passing glance, and then he disappeared from the street like a ghost in the night.


	2. Chapter 2

Hotel Le Royal Monceau was a tall, white building located on Avenue Hoche. You know it’s posh when its façade has huge, floor to ceiling windows and carefully pruned pots of flowers arranged artistically at the entrance. Jaskier endured M’s disgusted ‘how much?’ and ‘doesn’t he know we’re in a recession?’ along with a litany of other grumbles to get the paperwork signed off. “One thousand two hundred pounds a night,” she’d scowled as she scribbled her signature on the costing form. “If he doesn’t leave with those launch codes, you’re both on surveillance duty for a month.” 

Jaskier pulled a face as he left the office. Surveillance duty meant following around a member of the Cabinet in a nondescript white van, watching them attend meetings, eat Marks and Spencer sandwiches and cheat on their spouses. _No thank you._

Geralt steps out of his hired car and passes the keys across to the concierge along with his room number for his bags, who seems somewhat perplexed to be faced with a Vauxhall Insignia rather than a two-seater sports car. He was a man of simple tastes, usually. The doorman gives him a polite nod as he enters the hotel lobby, straightening his cufflinks as his gaze passes around the reception. The evening’s just as claustrophobic as two nights prior and the sweat on the back of his neck prickles under the cool caress of the air conditioning. 

He heads across the immaculate marble floor to the bar and dining area. There are several older gentlemen sitting around with tall broadsheets, a young family—or rather, two children and their escort—sitting by the window and Yen propping up the bar. The black combats are gone, replaced by an ankle length, strapless dress. The slit in the side reveals the lean thigh as her legs cross, the sparkling gems in her heels catching the light of the overhead chandeliers.

 _“Oh, she’s gorgeous,”_ Jaskier whispers in Geralt’s ear. _“I can see why you fell for that on repeat, you know.”_

“Yes, thank you, Jaskier,” Geralt grumbles, adjusting his cuff again. Yen makes him nervous in a way few others do. When they’re on joint operations it’s easy to place her in the role of fellow operative, but like this—with the dress, the flowing hair down her back, the beautiful violet eyes sparkling, and just _everything_ —old memories begin to surface. Those old memories are the reason they both insist on public meeting now. He approaches with a tight smile and his pre-prepared introduction falls out of his head. “You smell nice.”

She squints at him, and then pulls a face. “This is a _business_ meeting.”

Geralt, who’s never one to _not_ flog a proverbial horse in cardiac arrest, continues. “You smell nice at this business meeting.” From the look on her face, the horse was now beyond help, so he makes himself comfortable on the stool. One of the barmen stops by and Yen orders him the most expensive whiskey on the menu; it’s not the 263, but it went down just as well.

“Any surveillance?” She asks softly.

“None,” Geralt replies over the rim of his glass. “Jaskier ran some more checks, but the man’s a ghost. No trace of him on any cameras before he appeared in the offices.”

“And none since,” Yen murmurs. “Triss kept an eye on everything around your hotel and mine. I moved a few times just to make sure. She’s fairly good at spotting a tail.” She pauses to take a sip of her wine. “I spoke with the bosses. They were reluctant to share the intel, but I convinced them it was for the good of our ‘special relationship’, so,” she passes him a memory stick, “here.”

“And they’re okay with two sets being in existence?”

“Well, the next stage is looking for the damned thing and I know for a fact your little ferret is currently weaselling his way through international black markets, so if one of us finds it and it’s already been set? You’ll need these to deactivate it.”

_“Geralt, did she just call me a ferret? You know, I’ve never liked her.”_

“Any leads?” Geralt asks, decidedly ignoring his analyst, but before Yen can answer one of the bar staff wanders over. Now, Geralt isn’t a _shallow_ person, but the man that approaches them is _staggeringly_ attractive. He’s dressed in the uniform of the hotel—black trousers, waistcoat, white shirt and bow tie—and it accentuates every curve and line for Geralt’s viewing pleasure. His black hair, parted in the middle, is carefully tucked behind his ears; his eyes are a striking hazel, set in a broad face with full lips, and the forearms that sweep through Geralt’s vision while they mop the bar are sun kissed and strong. He can’t help but follow them up to the thick biceps that flex through his shirt. There’s a network of scars down the right side of his face, but they only add to Geralt’s fascination.

Perhaps the bartender catches him staring—very likely, he’s not discreet—because he raises an eyebrow and leans forward rather pointedly. “Can I get you anything, sir?” There’s a tiny sliver of mischief in that tone alongside his subtle, American accent and, accompanied by the slight tilt of the head, Geralt’s almost convinced that the man can read his mind. He’s clearly amused by Geralt’s filthy, _touch starved_ , all too needy thoughts. Or perhaps he can see Geralt flailing in desperation as he tries, and fails, to hold Yen’s attention, which is equally as funny.

“No,” Geralt says quickly, and then glances at Yen’s now empty glass. “I mean, that is to say—.”

Yen rolls her eyes as she places the wine flute down on the bar. “No, I’m quite fine. I was just thinking of catching an early night,” she glances between the two, and Geralt is thoroughly disgruntled by her knowing smile; she knows his type. Tall, dark, good-looking, _interesting_ and entirely too sassy. With his impressive physique, his faint, mischievous smile and intriguing scars, Mr Barman fit the bill in every regard. In her case, he was happy to forego the tall part because of the sheer volume of sass. It balanced out. She slides from her stool, the silky fabric of her dress falling back into place over her smooth skin. “Have a good evening, gentlemen.”

 _“Smooth, Geralt,_ ” Jaskier murmurs disparagingly into his ear. Geralt thumps the earpiece in reprimand, covering it as a light scratch at the back of his neck.

“Well, sorry, I, uh… tough break,” the bartender hisses through his teeth as she departs. 

“Oh, don’t worry, that break happened a good few years ago,” Geralt smirks and takes a long draw from the tumbler in his hand. “You’re not French.” American, definitely; west coast, perhaps inland California.

“Well-spotted,” the barman replies, with that same subtle quirk at the corner of his lips. “And neither are you. So, if you’re not here for pleasure—,” he glances after Yen, who’d now disappeared from the dining hall completely, “—that means you’re here for business. Posh suit, neat haircut, _genuine_ Rolex. Must be successful.”

“Hmm,” Geralt leans on his forearms. “Or I could’ve just blown my credit card in hopes of presenting a certain image. Women love a big spender.”

“Nah,” the barman shrugs. “Those types have an over exaggerated swagger—like they want everyone to think they _should_ be here because they don’t belong—and they always make the mistake of wearing cheap cologne. You,” he pauses in his fastidious wiping of the bar to take a deep breath, eyes flickering briefly closed, “are wearing Frederic Malle. Nearly four hundred dollars a bottle. High roller. Only spends money he has, which means he can only get richer.”

Geralt tilts his head, intrigued. “Very impressive. Perhaps I need to be a little more discreet.”

“Don’t,” he shakes his head. “Only way I can tell who’ll tip well and who’ll blow me off. Nothing worse than serving Mr Big Spender all night, maybe playing his wingman, only to get a measly few Euros tucked under a beer mat when he saunters off with a pretty girl on his arm.” 

“Smart.”

“Survival instinct,” he replies. “To be honest, compared to the ladies, I reckon I get the better end of the deal. Top up?” 

“Name first,” Geralt moves his tumbler out of the way of the barman’s hands, eyebrows quirked.

“You want my name in exchange for pouring _you_ a drink?” There was that smile again; it was so subtle, but with the flash in those brilliant hazel eyes, Geralt felt his heart skip a beat.

“Well, so far, you’ve chased away a potential date—as disastrous as it no doubt would have been—by throwing me off with a smile,” Geralt taps the edge of his glass. “I’d say a name is a fair trade.”

 _“Wow, Geralt. That was… actually quite smooth, well done,_ ” Jaskier, who has been observing the whole thing with growing amusement, coaches from the outside. _Fuck off, ferret._

“Eskel,” the barman replies, grabbing the bottle of whiskey from the back shelf. “And this one’s on the house if I can get a name in return."

 _“Geralt…”_ Jaskier warns.

“James,” Geralt says as he watches the amber liquid swirl around his glass from the bottle neck. “Eskel. Never heard that name before.”

“It’s a nickname,” Eskel replies as he puts the stopper back in the crystal decanter. 

“So, what do I have to do to get your real one?”

“Impress me.” Eskel sweeps the towel from the bar and tucks it in his belt. When he leans forward, the heels of his palms braced on polished wood, Geralt can’t help but admire the way his chest flexes into his shirt and waistcoat. It’s deliberate. He isn’t foolish. This is a man confident in his looks, even with the scars on his face; he knows what he has and knows how to flaunt it. 

“Impress you,” Geralt considers his drink. “Well, since you’re so observant, perhaps you’ll let me do the same?” 

“Go ahead,” Eskel bows his head, and Geralt can’t get enough of how his eyes glitter with amusement. And _intelligence._ Some people you can just look at and _know._ He had a brain that worked quicker than everyone else’s, but he didn’t flaunt that; he was quietly brilliant. The most intriguing kind.

 _“Hey, smooth operator, I can’t look him up if I don’t have a real name, and he hasn’t looked at the security cameras once,”_ Jaskier lets off a long-suffering sigh and begins to tap at the keys. _“Running Eskel through French border control. You know, just in case.”_

“You’re well built,” Geralt drops his eyes, not bothering to mask his appraisal. “But it’s not steroids. It’s the kind that comes from hard work and a good diet. The way you carry yourself up and down the bar; there’s a quiet confidence in it, and the fact that you can take the measure of someone in a room just by a glance. You’ve had roles with authority that have required the habit of peak physical fitness, and awareness of danger. Police, perhaps the military,” he watches Eskel’s eyes drop, “the military then.” 

_“Checking American military records.”_

“Pretty good so far. How’d I end up here?”

Geralt leans back, arms folded. “Potentially two reasons. First, invalided out,” he waits for the reaction, but there isn’t one and so he continues, “or, you just realised the promise of ‘come see the world, son’ wasn’t so great when you were viewing it through a scope. You decided to see it on your own terms.”

“Alright, I have to know,” Eskel stands up straight again. “What gives the second part away?”

_“Geralt, nothing’s coming up…”_

“Shared experience,” Geralt smiles and he’s relieved when it’s returned. “Are there rules here for drinking on the clock?”

“There are rules for everything here,” Eskel glances down the length of the bar to where his fellow tender serves an older gentleman with an impressive moustache. “Why, you offering to buy me a drink, high roller?” 

_“I’ll, uh, I’ll try civilian records, but… I don’t think he’s telling the truth about the military, you know? Americans are fastidious about this sort of thing._ ”

“Perhaps more than one,” Geralt takes another sip and the burn as it passes through his chest bolsters his confidence.

“Tell me,” Eskel bends down to begin emptying the dishwasher, and Geralt does precisely _nothing_ to restrain himself from having a good ogle at that backside. “The ‘you smell nice’ line. That ever work?”

“I was under pressure,” Geralt grumbles, but flushes to the very tips of his ears. “And you used exactly the same one on me about ten minutes ago.”

“No,” Eskel lifts a finger. “It was different. And, I think you’ll find, my version worked.” 

“Oh, did it?” Geralt’s eyebrows shoot up, and then sink slowly when he’s flashed another of those disarming grins. The quirk in Eskel’s upper lip just makes it all the more beautiful; there’s no smile in the world like it. It’s entirely unique. And in this moment, it’s all Geralt’s. “Pour me another, Prince Charming, I’m gonna’ need it to keep up.” 

They talk the rest of the evening away. When Eskel’s shift finishes, he undoes his bow tie and Geralt’s eyes struggle to leave the slope of his collarbone as he pops his top button. Eskel is smooth, polite and bloody hilarious. They move closer as they chat, one of Eskel’s knees set between Geralt’s, inviting more intimacy, which Geralt readily accepts. To be flirted _with_ , rather than doing all the heavy lifting; to be gazed upon like he’s actually _attractive._ The draw’s irresistible. Gentle touches of the hands, flirtatious, appraising eyes and a low, gravelly tone that makes Geralt’s insides melt. That velvet voice promises endless passion and pleasure; Geralt’s hooked in effortlessly.

When it comes time for last orders, Geralt thinks nothing of inviting Eskel up to his suite. As Eskel walks ahead to get to the lift, Jaskier pipes up in Geralt’s ear. _“I still can’t find him anywhere official, I mean, I’ve got his social security number. I’ve found his facebook page though. Esben is his first name. Parents look nice. It’s… hmm, just make sure you put the codes somewhere safe, alright?”_

“Good night, Jaskier,” Geralt breathes, and removes the earpiece discreetly. He’d definitely prefer not to have such a judgemental audience for the next bit, because he was rather hoping this adonis was going to ruin him. They make it into the lift before he’s in Eskel’s arms and pushed up against the cold glass of the mirror at the back. 

Skilful lips devour his neck as firm hands stroke down his sides beneath his suit jacket, blunt nails teasing through the thin material of his shirt. Eskel grabs his thighs and lifts him, their hips grinding together, and Geralt can feel the swell of his cock through the starched fabric of his trousers. “Oh, _fuck._ ” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as a whine, but if _that’s_ what it feels like confined within underwear, then it’s going to be a beast. His insides clench with need as Eskel leaves possessive marks down his neck. They fall over each other as they work their way down the hall, and Geralt’s already tugging at Eskel’s belt when they reach his room...


	3. Chapter 3

The door hits the wall as they stumble through it. Geralt licks and bites at Eskel’s neck as those big hands wrench his suit jacket from his shoulders, pinning his arms to his sides. He’s like a rag doll in Eskel’s hands, almost powerless in the strength of his grip and the hungry kisses that bite into his chest. Eskel kicks the door shut behind him, and Geralt just about manages to shed his shoes before Eskel throws him onto the bed. Geralt can only watch as Eskel undoes three more buttons and pulls his shirt off; his cock throbs desperately in his trousers as he drinks in Eskel’s physique _._

Everything about him is majestic; his barrelled chest, his thick biceps, his powerful core that flexes with each of his pants. He’s feral, lips parted, pupils blown and he studies Geralt in the space between breaths like he’s about to devour him. There was no room for words as Eskel pins Geralt’s wrists to the bed and kisses him again; still hungry, still fierce, and Eskel tears through Geralt's shirt, leaving him breathless. He draws away to lavish a long, indulgent lick up the arch of Geralt’s throat, forcing his head back, before mouthing along his jaw with a soft moan. “Fuck, Eskel, ahh.” Geralt gasps and presses into Eskel’s hands as they pull open his belt and trousers. 

“Tell me what you want, James,” Eskel growls into his neck; their cocks brush together through the thin cotton of their boxers as Eskel pushes down his own slacks; Geralt spreads his legs wantonly, inviting it. “Or would you prefer to come in your pants?”

“That mouth needs to make good on its promises,” Geralt breathes as Eskel continues to move his hips in a slow, salacious roll and Geralt’s cock thickens to its fullest extent. “Then I want you inside me.”

“Hm.” Eskel smirks, his eyes dark, and Geralt feels a surge of desperate arousal. The man’s stunning; his debonair charm belies the barely contained power, the feral grace, just beneath the surface and Geralt can do nothing more than surrender as Eskel writhes down his body. Those consuming kisses leave a damp trail down his chest and stomach, dexterous fingers working his trousers and boxers onto the floor. Geralt can feel the throbbing heat of him; the soft hair on his chest brushing over Geralt’s flushed, oversensitive skin. The first press of his tongue as it laps up Geralt’s shaft makes his vision blotch with stars; Eskel kisses and sucks down to his groin, and then laps gently at his balls. _Tasting him_.

With sincere effort, his body willing only to bask, Geralt manages to lift his head to watch Eskel’s beautiful lips descend over his head, feels the soft, appreciative moan as his lover marvels at the velvet feel of his cock against his tongue. When Eskel swallows, taking Geralt’s cock into his throat without hesitation, Geralt arches and moves a hand to grasp a handful of soft, obsidian hair. Eskel’s head bobs slowly, allowing Geralt to relish the squeeze of his throat, the wet heat of his tongue and the subtle vibrations of his guttural, bone-deep moans. It’s too much— _too good_ —and Geralt’s prick quivers as he threatens to spill before he’s even got to the finale. 

“Eskel,” Geralt tugs gently, and receives an irritable rumble for his troubles. The hazel eyes that flick up at him are dark with want and for a moment Geralt thinks he’s going to be forced to come in exactly the way Eskel wishes, whether he likes it or not. The thought makes his stomach clench, but not with fear. “Get in me.” He manages, and those full lips, now swollen and reddened, pull off his cock with an audible _pop._

“Condom?” Eskel asks, leaving with one final parting lick at Geralt’s cock—it’s almost sweetly possessive, a promise to return.

“Suitcase, front pocket,” Geralt nods towards his bags stacked by the window, and Eskel heads over. There aren’t any weapons or sensitive files in there. Just clothes. The last thing he needs is a civilian pulling out a Glock and running out screaming. In the brief pause, Geralt remembers the nuclear-fucking-launch codes in his blazer pocket and silently leaves the bed. The safe sits inside the bedside cabinet, and he carefully slips the memory stick inside and closes the door. 

As he glances up to check on Eskel, he’s rendered suddenly breathless once more. Eskel’s completely naked, his muscular form silhouetted against the silvery backdrop of the summer moon beyond the window, all hardlines and firm curves; Geralt can see the outline of his prick as it stands up from his body, thick and outrageously big. His mouth waters as he watches Eskel roll the condom down from the very tip, fumbling in his haste to return to the bed as he strolls back over. “Jesus—fuck—.” Geralt’s suddenly grateful for his off-hand thought to bring a bottle of lube with him; Eskel chucks it down at Geralt’s side.

“Hm, he ain’t got nothin’ to do with it,” Eskel drawls, and then grabs Geralt by the ankles to pull him down the mattress. The next kiss is slower than the last couple as Eskel climbs between Geralt’s thighs. The tip of his cock presses slowly down his cleft until Geralt can feel the thickness of his shaft; the heat alone is enough to make him feel weak; he flops back onto the bed as Eskel slicks his fingers and gently cups his balls. The first brush of his fingers sends sparks up Geralt’s spine; they settle at the base of his skull and make him shiver with anticipation. He tilts his hips needily, fingers tangling in Eskel’s hair, as one finger slowly pushes inside. 

It doesn’t take much to open him up. The whiskey has left him relaxed, and Eskel’s mastery has made him eager. Eskel takes his time though, kissing Geralt’s chest and neck as he moves two, then three fingers in and out of his body. Geralt’s hole flutters and grips when Eskel finds his sweet spot and Geralt can’t help but roll his hips into Eskel’s hand in search of _more._ “You’re a needy thing, aren’t you?” Eskel growls, delighted. “I’m gonna’ fuck you, James. I want to hear you as I break you apart.” 

“Yes, please, _please_ , fuck, Eskel, split me open,” Geralt gasps, and then whines at the loss of those thick fingers as they withdraw. Eskel slicks his cock with more lube before those big hands return his hips and lift them from the bed. He’s cradled effortlessly as Eskel sinks into him. He takes his time, with slow, shallow thrusts that push just a little deeper each time. Geralt moans desperately, powerless as he’s impaled with aching languor. He can hear Eskel’s soft, enamoured grunts as his body clenches around him with each successive inch. When he’s fully seated, Eskel leans down and winds their fingers together above Geralt’s head.

They kiss and nip again as Eskel paces them with slow, long thrusts that Geralt can feel in his stomach. The angle’s perfect, grinding over his prostate, teasing him slowly higher to the apex of his pleasure. It’s enough to render him weak and breathless, but his orgasm flutters out of reach; Eskel’s drawing him out, savouring the clutch of his body, the neediness of his whines. “Harder, please, Eskel, please… fucking destroy me,” he begs into the darkness, and hears the low, rumbling chuckle as Eskel gathers his legs. 

The readjustment is slight, but soon Geralt’s spread open, his calves braced on Eskel’s broad shoulders, and those slow thrusts pick up until Eskel’s driving into him, swift and relentless. It’s not a hapless pounding, but a precise, penetrating fuck that makes Geralt shout and whimper. 

The sweat gathers on their skin as the close, midsummer evening crowds the room; they didn’t even bother putting the keycard in the switch to turn on the air conditioning, but it just makes everything deliciously heady. Geralt can smell Eskel’s cologne and his rich, musky scent beneath that; he licks and bites at Eskel’s shoulders, nails raking down his back in desperate search of purchase as the pleasure overwhelms him.

Those agile hips break Geralt apart as promised; his orgasm bursts through him, lighting up his blue eyes like fireworks against the summer sky. He’s pushed ever higher by the rolling piston of Eskel’s body; strong, powerful, unstoppable. When Eskel comes, his thick cock pulsing as his hips grind forward, Geralt’s barely coherent. He clings to those broad shoulders and laps at the sweat on Eskel’s throat, dazed as he soaks in pleasure.

It’s not the only time they fuck that night. Eskel leaves the bed briefly to dispose of the condom, only to return with a handful more. He leaves them on the nightstand as he folds against Geralt’s body; they grind, and touch, and kiss, ravenous for each other, until their cocks begin to thicken again. The second time Geralt slides onto that glorious prick, he’s upright, clinging onto Eskel’s shoulders as he rolls his body into his lap. Those strong hands wrap Geralt’s back to give him something to lean back on but otherwise give him freedom to take his pleasure as he wants, hazel eyes misty with adoration, as Geralt throws his head back and rides them both to another peak.

They fuck into the early hours of the morning. In the lulls, Eskel traces patterns over Geralt’s body and whispers sweet nothings in his ear. When the first sparrows begin to chirp outside their window and the early risers stir for their morning jogs, Geralt flops easily into Eskel’s waiting arms and falls into a deep, restful sleep.

***

Jaskier just couldn’t leave it. Before he departs that evening, he sets his computer to run a broad, all-encompassing sweep of NATO databases. It’s a huge task and takes a mammoth amount of computing power, but something bothers him about _Esben’s_ lack of documentation. Men didn’t just… _disappear_ from military databases.

His phone pings him at approximately seven o’clock in the morning with a result. It takes five seconds of rapid scrolling for him to decide that Geralt’s in danger, and then ten more seconds of frantic ringing to realise that he might just be too late. He sprints out the door and calls his direct line to M. The line he’s told to only ever use if there’s an emergency, like the world’s about to explode or Geralt’s decided to try with Yen _one more time._

_Well… it wasn’t the second one, was it?_

***

Geralt wakes slowly. The dull, amazing ache he feels deep in his bones reassures him that he didn’t just dream about the night of marathon sex, but his smile fades quickly when he tries to move his arm. And can’t. His nostrils flare and he picks up the scent of cigarette smoke above the general odour of Parisian traffic.

His eyes snap open and he glances up at his wrists. They’re secured to the bedposts with the curtain ties; the knots are tight. _Expert._ He lifts his head from the pillow and squints at Eskel sitting on the window ledge. He’s fully dressed, his bow tie hanging loose around the popped collar of his shirt, with a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips. “I don’t remember discussing bondage.”

Eskel smirks. It’s not cold, but it isn’t exactly reassuring either. “As much as I’d like to educate you in the possibilities, I don’t have time, Geralt.” 

Geralt’s eyes widen; the first issue is that Eskel’s accent is no longer American, but _Russian._ It’s a soft lilt; his English crisp and educated. _Not good._ “Sorry? Not sure who you’re—.”

“Don’t be tiresome,” Eskel sighs. “Geralt Rivia, MI6, designation 007; divorced, one child. Former special forces, decorated numerous times for bravery. Honourable discharge, recruited straight into the secret service. Disaster bisexual.” 

“Was the last part really necessary? I don’t think you have any room to be judging m—.”

“I’m not the one tied to a bed with my prick out,” Eskel retorts, removing his cigarette to tap the ash onto the street below. There’s clear amusement in his tone though, and Geralt catches the appreciative glance cast his way.

“So, you were a honey trap,” Geralt’s head drops back into the pillows. _How could he be so fucking stupid?_ He looks down at the safe and, sure enough, the door’s wide open and the memory stick’s gone. “Why the fuck are you still here? Don’t you have an election to rig?” He spits as he thrashes at the ties, only to feel them pull tighter at his wrists. 

“It’s rude to leave your sexual partners without saying goodbye,” Eskel replies, stubbing out his cigarette against the white plastic of the window ledge. 

“But tying them to the bed? Perfectly acceptable.”

“Self preservation,” Eskel murmurs. “I could’ve just snapped your neck. This is marginally less distressing for the cleaning maid.” 

“Robocop,” Geralt groans at the ceiling as the realisation dawns. Same build, same height.

“What?”

“Don’t worry,” he kicks at the mattress and sighs. “Did you really have to fuck me senseless? A beating would’ve made this part slightly less… _disappointing._ ” 

“I try to avoid violence where possible,” Eskel stands and strolls slowly across the room. “Besides, I rather enjoyed last night. It’s rare I find partners that can… keep up.” 

“I’m flattered,” Geralt drawls.

“Hm.” Eskel picks up a biro from the vanity table and tears off one of the hotel branded post-it-notes. 

“What’re you doing?”

“Giving you my number.” Eskel returns the pen once he’s finished, and walks over to place the piece of paper gently on Geralt’s chest. “When this is all over, give me a call. We can discuss the bondage.”

“You arrogant prick,” Geralt growls. “Like fuck I’m going to call you.”

Eskel gives Geralt a _Look._ The Look informs Geralt that he's definitely going to call Eskel and he should really stop being such a _brat_ about it. Just as he’s about to continue his tirade, Geralt hears the thump of helicopter blades as it descends just outside the window. Simultaneously, there's a shout outside the door; it’s Yen. “Geralt? Geralt! Open the door.”

“I believe that’s my cue to leave,” Eskel rolls his shoulder as he rocks back on his heels, and Geralt can only watch in begrudging awe as the huge Russian breaks into a sprint and flings himself out the window. Yen bursts in just as he clears the ledge, but she’s too late. The helicopter lifts Eskel out of their reach as he clings onto the rope ladder deployed to collect him. With one arm looped through the ladder rungs, and feet braced, he places two fingers to his lips and blows her a kiss before he disappears around a neighbouring building.

She scowls as she stalks over to the bed. “Is there any occasion when you think with the head containing your brain, or is it just there for show?” There’s a set of nail scissors in one of the nightstands, and she uses them to cut Geralt loose, before chucking his boxers and trousers at him.

“Jaskier send you?”

“Yes,” she folds her arms and glowers into space. “He was practically in tears, you know. He thought you’d be dead after looking at that man’s history.”

“Bad news?” Geralt’s too _weathered_ to make a fuss, and pulls his boxers on slowly. _Oh, he can still feel Eskel’s cock and it’s glorious._

“Russian Spec Ops. Master at his craft, apparently,” she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re a fucking moron and I hate you, but I’m glad you’re alive. I… would've never forgiven myself if I walked off and left you with your murderer.”

“I’m flattered you care so much,” Geralt mumbles, hiding his smirk as he pulls his shirt on.

“Yeah, well, if we don’t get those codes back, I’ll murder you myself. Hurry up, we’re meeting Jaskier at the airport. M’s spitting feathers, and my boss isn’t exactly thrilled with us either. On top of finding a nuke in haystack, we’re now racing a very clever Russian. Never easy mode, always death march with you, isn’t it?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, and leaves him to collect his suitcase. As he walks towards the door, he pauses by the bed and stoops to pick up the post-it that had fluttered to the floor upon Yen’s entry.

He glances at the bin by the dresser, and then folds the paper carefully into his back pocket. When this is all over, and if they don’t end up having to shoot Eskel, Geralt might just give him a call after all. Nothing to do with the bondage, you understand. It's just rare to find someone that makes him laugh so effortlessly, listens to him so _intently_ and intrigues him so _thoroughly_. Even if fifty percent of it was a ploy, Geralt's desperate to see whether the remaining half is worth keeping.


End file.
